Walls of Separation
by Lizzosaurus
Summary: Slight AU. Feliks, trapped within the enclosing walls of the ghetto, struggles to find a way to see an old, forgotten friend. If only one last time. Based loosely upon the events that took place within the Warsaw Ghetto, during WWII. Vague summary will be vague. Human names used.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer of Hetalia? Obviously, considering this is a _fan_fiction. :)

Slight Hetalia historical AU based upon the events that took place within the Warsaw ghetto, Poland, between 1940 and 1942.

I am having difficulty with the format of this website and the way it laid out my words, so critique is always welcome!

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><p>I gripped the man's arm tighter, grunting as we slowly made our way down the abandoned, dirty streets.<p>

Almost there.

A remarkable, impossible task we had set out to complete, but a task all the same.

"Are you sure you wish to help me, Tomasz?" I murmured. "There is no shame to be felt in leaving." I had long since dropped my chipper 'like's and 'totally's for proper grammar. If there was nothing to like, then why use such words? The man whose shoulder had been offered to me smiled brightly.

"We're all going to die sooner than later. What better evening to kick the bucket than on a moonlit winter's eve, assisting a fellow colleague?" At Tomasz's words, I allowed a fatigued grin to grace my lips.

"How do you know he will be there?" He asked, turning to look at me as we maneuvered down alleys and through corridors.

"I just do."

It was by sheer miracle that a guard had not yet approached us, inquiring our position so late after the evening curfew. Only the mad would be reckless enough to venture outside at this hour.

And maybe we were mad.

But it made naught a difference in this small world we were confined to. Clarity and distortion were measured equal in this sickening twist of fate. And so, we walked onward in silence, intercepted by neither man nor German, until at last the destination could be seen. The ghetto wall rose up to greet us, looming above our heads at a full 3. 5 metres. Crowned with barbed wire and plaited with dull brackish brickwork, its sole purpose was to effectively sever interference with Aryans.

It separated the Jewish, social filth, from the rest of the world, enclosing us within the cramped perimeter of Warsaw.

I pressed my chaffed, abused palms against the offending structure, my legs throbbing from the exhausting journey.

Tomasz laid a hand upon my shoulder.

"Are you sure you're alright?" He murmured quietly.

I nodded and waved him aside, slowly drawing myself back up.

"Feliks?"  
>The quiet whisper drifted over the top of the barricade, barely audible even in the stillness of the night hours. All weariness was shaken from my limbs at the sound of the familiar voice.<p>

"Tomasz, help me up!" I cried, grasping my friend's sturdy arms impatiently. He laughed, easily lifting my thin frame onto his shoulders.  
>Even from atop Tomasz, my body length missed the edge of the wall by a full metre. Cursing under my breath, my hands grasped for any hold it could reach. A faint groan of exertion escaped my throat as I clambered upward on trembling arms.<p>

Then dirtied fingers curled around the edge of the wall. Dragging my upper body forward with a final, desperate heave, I managed to lean my torso against the wide surface.

"You alright up there?" Tomasz gripped my feet firmly, now perched upon his shoulders like a delicate bird's.

I could not respond for sake of the laughter tumbling from my throat. He was there, waiting for me, spindly fingers reaching through the barbed wire to touch my face, my hair, my clothes- anything to show I was truly there before him. Emerald green eyes flickered with an implacable emotion as I grabbed the lapels of his jacket and drew him as close as the razor wires would allow.

"My friend, my friend, how I have missed you so..." I breathed.

Toris pressed his forehead against mine and smiled.  
>Not the nervous, 'don't ask me if I'm alright' smile I had grown so accustomed to in the last few, bitter years.<br>A true, genuine smile. Shining with the light of rye fields and lazy summer afternoons and tulip gardens.

I could see Eduard from where I stood, momentarily releasing his hand from Toris's oxford to wave warmly up at me.

They say when one dies, the world goes silent. A single moment of stillness is granted, a parting gift, before reality resumes its place, partaking once more within your conscience.

I saw it in Toris's face well before I heard it.

Those beautiful emerald orbs, bearing no less than sheer joy only moments earlier, widening with horror.

I heard his scream well before the ring of a gunshot ever touched my ears.

I felt his hands grasping desperately for my own, heedless of the disobliging barbed wire, well before the splitting agony blossomed in my side, spreading through my chest.

Then the moment was over, and I felt pavement slamming into my body as I was toppled from Tomasz's shoulders and the unforgiving cement rushed forward to greet me.

Darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Narrated from Tomasz's point of view. I don't really picture him as an OC, because I don't like the concept of OC's. He's just another character, a civilian.

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><p>"<em>Boże ... proszę <em>..."

The same agonized gasp left Feliks' lips continuously as I carried him into the kitchen of my cramped living quarters.

"Move, child!" I snapped as my daughter stared at the bleeding man in my arms, her face filling with horror. It wasn't the blood soaking his jacket and dripping onto the floor. It wasn't the terrible, hoarse rasping sounds. It wasn't even the gunshot wound that left her paralyzed with fear. We were used to all of those things.

It was Feliks' face.

Contorted into one of sheer, wretched torment, a silent scream passing his lips. An expression she had never seen in the face of such a blithe man. A man who had never lost a milligram of optimism, even as his home was pillaged, and his books burned, and his culture spat upon as filth.

"_Just you watch, dearest. The Americans will come soon."_

_"Hang on a little while longer. It will all be over in a few weeks_."

I was the only one who heard his barely audible weeping, during nights when the air raids and the deportations and the meager rationing and the typhus mortalities stretched his undying faith taut.

But now he concealed nothing from my family nor myself, his facial features etched with a thousand unspeakable emotions.

"Hadassah, clear the table!" I barked again, pushing aside my growing distress. She jumped and frantically began to sweep books, loose leaf papers, and documents - the remnants of my once flourishing business as a bookstore owner - off the dining table.

"Hey Feliks, are you sure it was mere coincidence that you chose the son of a doctor as your friend?" I laughed nervously, gesturing towards the hall with the nod of my head.

Father now stood in the doorway, roused by the commotion I had caused.

"More or less." Feliks chuckled before wincing and clutching his chest.

I eased him onto the table and Father was there, unbuttoning my friend's soiled jacket and peeling the blood-crusted shirt from his heaving torso. The bullet wound found its mark about halfway down his side, crimson blood sluggishly pooling on the surface of the table. Feliks' breathing had grown short and shallow, as if someone were smothering him. A groan slipped from his throat as Father and I flipped him onto his side.

"There's no exit wound, _cholera." _Father swore, almost to himself, inspecting Feliks' back and the planes of his stomach.

He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, a nervous habit he had passed on to me.

"Alright... alright. Feliks, you've been shot. I need to insert a chest tube if you want to breathe much longer." He spoke calmly, confidently, and with blunt resolution.

Feliks shook his head, eyes widening.

"No... no chest tube... please don't cut me..." His voice had begun to trail lethargically between hoarse rasps, breathing aided in no small means by his sudden panic.

I swabbed the space in between the Pole's ribs with the antiseptic Father pushed into my hands.

"Don't waste your supplies." Feliks whispered, feebly shaking his head.

"Don't pull that card on me, young sir." Father retorted, using a scalpel to cut a small incision into his side.

Feliks slammed his head back against the table with startling force, clenching his teeth in his efforts to swallow back a scream. Still, even then a thin moan pushed through, the sound chilling the blood in my viens with its haunting fervor. I was accustomed to the laughter, snide remarks, and quotes from favorite books created by this man's voice.

Not _this._

Then Father positioned the thick tube within the incision and sharply, deftly pushed it between his ribs. The screech was no longer contained as Feliks' back arched in agony, emanating through the thin plastered walls and soaking into the floorboards.

"Shut him up!" Father paused briefly and glanced up at me, eyes flashing with alarm.

"Haven't you got any morphine?"

"Shut him up, before the Gestapo comes knocking. Now!"

My hands fumbled about until they found a dark rag.

But by then he had fallen silent.

Unconscious.

"Father! What... what do I do?" I dropped the rag and backpedaled in the heat of my frantic strains. "Is he... is he going to d-"

"No."

He cut me off abruptly, nodding his head resolutely while he stitched the bulled wound back together. I was so caught up in my terror that I had not yet seen the product of his swift handiwork. Shaking my head, I stared at him.

"What are you doing? He'll die if you don't extract that, surely?"

My father stepped down from the table.

"The tube is in place. There is nothing more I can do. If I had an operating room, I would remove the bullet. But I can't perform a surgery unless he is sedated and unconscious, or he'll die of the pain."

The helplessness of the situation overtook me at last, and I sat on the floor with a dull thud. If m father didn't operate, Feliks might die. If he did operate, Feliks would still die.

"Your friend is strong," Father knelt down next to me. "I've seen him survive worse. If he makes it through the night, he will be able to fight infection. Until then, watch him carefully. Call me if his condition worsens."

Throughout the night and into the early morning, I sat next to my friend. The pale dawn light cast a milky glow against his skin, bringing a new, youthful appearance to his face. I had heard rumours that he had been a rather charismatic character before the War started, adorning himself with brilliant colour and fabrics. Surrounding himself with new clothing and friends and books. The very image of a popular high school student.

Now I could only grasp the blurred lines of this man that had been described to me. I saw only the thin, malnourished man that had taken his place. His clothes were grey and dull and threadbare. His cheeks had sunken in, and his eyes had grown hollow with the ever-present hunger that we all felt. All that remained was his quickly-draining optimism.

He was just like the rest of _us._

"_'_It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.'"

Startled from my thoughts, I turned at the sound of a strained voice.

"Are you quoting... Ralph Walder Emerson?"

"_Waldo_. It fit both the atmosphere and the situation at hand, seeing as I am currently lying on your kitchen table."

I grinned at his quickly-quipped statement.

"Would you do it again, dearest, idiotic friend?"

"With your blessing, I would do it again in a heartbeat."

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><p>I thought I would finish it off. Even though I kind of enjoyed leaving the story as it was, I was unable to picture Feliks simply <em>dying<em>. So here is my sloppy handiwork of an epilogue :)


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